


you can have the best of me

by CloudCover (RainyForecast)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Magic User!Sid, Magical Realism, Police Detective!Sid, Russian Mafia, Werewolves, mention of human trafficking, mob-related violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover
Summary: The person—man, Sid sees, unfolds himself and stands, groaning. Sid’s hand tightens on his gun.“Sidney?” the man says, and Sid can see he’s holding out his hands, open, to show he’s unarmed. Sid takes a few steps closer. The man moves back, and the light falls on him. He’s stark naked. There’s either dirt or blood or both streaked across his skin, and he’s shaking. “Sidney. Didn’t know where else to go.”





	you can have the best of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dangereuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangereuse/gifts).



 

 

“Well,” Tanger says, leaning back in his chair and raising his eyebrows at Sid. “You ever work with ‘wolves before? Or Russians?”

Sid frowns a little to himself, still studying the whiteboard up at the front of the briefing room. “No, never. There were some selkies who did search and recovery for us in Halifax, but they mostly worked with the Coast Guard, not the RCMP or the Regional Police. We had some North Atlantic Mer we talked to occasionally for intel but they don’t like humans much in general, and police especially. What about Quebec?”

Tanger shakes his head. “There was this First Nations lady, a lynx shifter, that came in sometimes to do specialized scentwork but I never worked with her.”

“This is big, then, for ‘wolves to come forward as informants against their pack. Even if it’s tangled up in the mafia,” Sid muses. Tanger hums in acknowledgement and starts gathering up papers and file folders.

“I’m thinking, Primanti Bros for lunch, what about you?” he asks Sid. Sid doesn’t have a chance to answer before Chief Lemieux calls his name from the front of the room.

“Sid? Can you meet me in my office?”

“Ooooo,” Tanger taunts, for all the world like a grade schooler when a classmate’s in trouble with the teacher. Sid sighs and flips him off.

“Between you and Flower, the things I put up with,” he grouses.

“You loooove us,” Tanger smirks, and Sid can only shake his head because Tanger’s not wrong.

 

***

Mario’s wearing a tired, pinched expression when he waves Sid into his office.

“Sidney. I know I don’t need to reiterate how much of a breakthrough this could be. ‘Wolf packs are so incredibly close knit. No love for outsiders. It’s incredible they’re even willing to talk to us.”

Sid frowns. “Then...how bad does it have to be inside before a ‘wolf goes against his pack like this?”

Mario looks even more grim. “I shudder to think, Sid, I really do. Werewolf pack ties and organized crime are an unbelievably insidious mix. But if this goes right? We could crack this thing wide open.”

Sidney nods. “I’ll do my absolute best, sir.”

Mario claps him on the shoulder. “I know, you always do. Just remember this—our hardest task isn’t going to be getting the information. It's going to be keeping the informants alive long enough to do anything about it.”

 

***

 

After Sid leaves Mario’s office he’s ambushed by the French Canadian contingent and dragged off to lunch, despite his protestations about studying case files.

“We both know you’re going to be up half the night memorizing them anyway,” Flower says. “So we’re gonna make sure you get enough calories in you to last ‘til next week.” Sid rolls his eyes a little at being mother-henned but it always feels kind of nice.

They go to Primanti Bros because Tanger is having Montreal smoked meat withdrawals. As always, he complains that pastrami is a poor substitute for _viande fumée_ but orders a sandwich nearly the size of his own head anyway. They manage to snag a corner table despite the rush. Flower shushes Sid when he tries to bring up the case until their food is at least half gone. Tanger’s too busy cooing scandalous French nothings at his sandwich for conversation anyway.  

“Okay Sid, now we can talk shop,” Flower says magnanimously.

Sid rolls his eyes. “Thanks, mom.”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on you, Sid. So, Mario’s putting you with Tanger instead of Shearsy?” Flower asks.

“Yeah, not a situation for rookies, really.”

“Mmhm. Okay, werewolves, what do we know?” Flower asks. “Besides what you can get off of the pamphlets they hand out during seminars.”

Sid sighs. “Not a lot besides the basics, unfortunately.” He ticks facts off on his fingers. ”Bipedal to quadrupedal at-will shifters. Increased activity during parts of the lunar cycle.  Dislike of magic and magic users. Hierarchal pack social structure, from groups as small as 3-4 to numbering in the hundreds. Pack bonds haven’t been studied extensively but are known to run extraordinarily deep, probably to the psychic level. Packs are generally self-policing and self-governing and advice to law enforcement and other organizations is generally: leave werewolves alone. Oh, and don’t show them your neck, or try to touch theirs. That’s about all they tell you. Not that helpful.”

“Take a breather, Officer Info-Dump. Psychic bonds, huh?” Flower tilts his head thoughtfully. “The fact that this informant approached the police—it means something bad.”

“Yeah, that’s what Chief Lemieux said,” Sid says. “Either something heinous is happening inside the pack gangs, or it’s—”

“A trap,” Flower finishes grimly.

Sid picks at the fries that have fallen out of his sandwich. “Well.”

“You’re the best, Sid,” Flower says. “You’ve got this.”

Sid can only hope he’s right.

“Well since there’s nothing more case-related to talk about at this point, how about we revisit your sad excuse for a love life? You know, Vero has this friend—“

“Absolutely not, Flower. Fuck off.”

Flower grins unrepentantly at him. Tanger, finished eating, just looks unimpressed.

“You’re going to die alone at this rate, _mon chum_ ,” Tanger says.

Sid rolls his eyes, and slides the bill across the table to Flower in revenge.

 

***

 

 

Later, when Sid gets off duty, Flower’s matchmaking attempt at lunch is still niggling at him. Sid throws his keys in the bowl by the door and unwinds his scarf, looking around his apartment and trying to see it through the eyes of his friends. What’s so wrong with his life, anyway? Of course, he’d love to have someone to come home to someday, but for now he’s okay. His apartment is comfortable and it feels like home. He has the wards cast just the way he likes them, and even though it’s going to be hell on his security deposit, he’s carved a series of traditional Nova Scotian runes along the door frame. They’re the kind that they’ve been carving into the prows of boats back home for generations—for luck or protection, or good fishing. When he brushes his hands over them while stepping through the door, he can smell wet rope and taste salt, and the faint sounds of gulls ring in his ears.

He’s got a vintage hockey stick from the 1930s on his mantle, and it has its own kind of magic. As does the quilt his mom made him using all of the hockey jerseys he’d ever worn, playing as a kid. Pots of herbs useful to spellwork line the windowsills, and it feels like he has houseplants tucked in every other corner. Taylor is responsible for those. She leans a lot more toward plant magic then Sid does. Good energy, she’d said, and also he’d better not forget to water them or she would _know_. And she was right, damn it. Sid’s magic wasn’t particularly connected to plants, but they seemed to like it regardless, and it seemed to like them. He might have named the pothos threatening to engulf the fridge Bobby, as in Orr.  

Taylor is also responsible for Maisie. Maisie is a huge, enormously fat and placid tortoiseshell cat she bullied Sid into adopting. “You should have a familiar, Sid,” she said. “You’re lonely and pathetic, and I mean that in the most supportive and loving way possible.”

The joke was on her; Maisie is the least magical animal alive. She has a squeaky meow and spends most of her time rolling around on the floor, exposing her vast expanse of soft, white belly fur for pets. Purring all the while like a two-stroke engine. Sid loves her to distraction. He tries not to let on, because Taylor exists in a state of perpetual smugness about her management of his personal affairs as it is.

It’s a good space, his apartment, and he has a good life. He might get wistful from time to time, wondering “what if,” but it’s not worth dwelling on. He’s got his friends, he’s got his family, and he’s got his job—a demanding one that leaves little time for a significant other.

He eats takeout on the couch by himself, watching Friends reruns, Maisie perched behind him on the back of the couch, purring into his ear like a very small and gentle chainsaw.

 

***

 

 

Sid’s distracted the next morning. He drums his pen against the table as Sergeant Sullivan gestures passionately at the front of the briefing room, saying something about “attention to detail” and “resiliency.” Next to Sid, Kessel is silently mouthing along. Sullivan is a great sergeant, and his men would walk through fire for him, but he does have his pet phrases.

“We do this our way;  we do this the right way,” Sully says, pointing emphatically in the general directions of the rookies, who are—oh god, frantically writing everything down. Sid wonders if he should talk to them or if he should let them sweat it out on their own.

“—controlled emotion—” Sully’s saying, as Sid makes eye contact with Tanger. Tanger raises his eyebrows, as if to ask “ready?” Sid shrugs. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

 

 

***

 

 

The arranged meeting place is under an out-of-the-way freeway overpass. Sid and Tanger wait for a long time, stamping their feet and pacing to stay warm. They’re prepared to wait hours if they have to. Sid’s pretty sure Tanger brought a pack of cards in one of his pockets. But, then, their informants arrive without them even noticing.

The 'wolves aren’t there one moment, and the next, they are. Utterly silent, massive heads lowered in suspicion. They regard Sid and Tanger for a long moment, and nothing stirs but the thick fur of their heavy ruffs in the biting wind.

“My partner’s going to cast a concealment spell, is that alright?” Tanger asks. The shorter, stockier of the two 'wolves nods, even as the rangy one with the long legs flinches back a little. Sid gives him a moment, and then stretches out a hand, breathing in and tasting the cold moisture of the air in the back of his throat. It’s going to snow tonight, he notes distractedly, and wills the spell to condense in the space above his palm. It’s the most powerful concealment spell he knows, and it will take a few moments to bloom outwards and create a secure space for them to talk in. He sees the 'wolves shudder as it passes them in its expansion. But they shake it off and approach.

“Do you want to shift?” Tanger says conversationally. “We brought along clothes and blankets, if you want them?” The smaller ‘wolf nods, and hunches over, grunting in exertion as its bones crack. Sid studies his own feet for a moment. He’s not quite sure if it’s considered rude to watch or not.

He looks up when there’s a distinctly human cough and and a heavily accented “Thanks, I’ll have that blanket.” The were’s human face is square and kind looking, with lines of worry creasing his forehead. “My name is Sergei,” he tells them. “This is Evgeni.” He gestures at the other were. “He’ll probably not shift. Feel safer that that way.”

Sid nods. “Makes sense. I promise, we’ll do everything we can to keep both of you safe.” Sergei and the other ‘wolf look at each other.

“Our lives are forfeit just for having this conversation, you know this, yes?” Sergei asks, tension crackling under his words.

Tanger nods. “We understand. And we’re very grateful you both agreed to help us. This is going to save lives.”

Sergei sighs. “We know. It’s why we take this risk. But, I have to request something of you first. I have a family. A wife. Two little girls. They need to be safe.”

“We can start working on something right away,” Sid says. “Arrange a safe house, police protection.” Sergei closes his eyes briefly and nods.

“Will not be easy to move them without suspicion. But I beg you for this.”

The desperation in his voice makes Sid’s heart ache a little. “I’ll do everything in my power.” Sergei looks searchingly at Sid, and then glances down at Evgeni, who’s also staring at Sid. Evgeni‘s eyes leave Sid’s face and he nods at Sergei, once. Some tension goes out of Sergei’s shoulders.

“Okay. Okay. We have a deal.”

 

***

 

They’d come to America, Sergei told them, like so many others, in search of a better life. They were from a city in Russia’s industrial heartland called Magnitogorsk. There was nothing much to look forward to there but a back-breaking job in a steel mill. Evgeni had wanted out, and Sergei had wanted a brighter future for his daughters. Evgeni and Sergei’s families were long-standing friends, part of the same pack. When a distant cousin of Sergei’s had immigrated to the Pittsburgh area and had sent back glowing reports, they’d decided now was the time.

When they arrived, however, they found out the truth of the situation. The mafia, or the Bratva, had wormed its insidious tentacles deep into the fabric of the Russian community in Pittsburgh, and nowhere more completely than the ‘wolf packs. Sergei explained that he and Evgeni had been given little choice. They would work for the Bratva, or the consequences would be dire. And they had Ksenia and the baby girls to think of. They’d done what they had to. They’d tried their best to do as little harm as possible. And it was...bad, but not as bad as it could have been. Counterfeit and black market goods didn’t usually spill blood, just dollars. The Bratva had its fingers in other pies but luckily Evgeni and Sergei had managed to steer clear. And then.

Sergei’s face becomes even more drawn and grim as he continues. “They asked Evgeni and I to stand watch a week ago at one of the river terminals the Bratva control. There was a boat coming in that night with a shipment, they told us. We were to radio in when it arrived. They didn’t tell us what the cargo was, they never do. But they asked us to stay, when the boat docked. Said they wanted extra security.” Sergei’s face twists in disgust. “Wasn’t black market goods this time. It was people. Lots were young, lots weren’t human, lots were in bad shape. It was awful.” Beside him Evgeni growls, low and rumbling. “And we knew, we’d been cowards. There was no possible excuse anymore for keeping our heads down. Yes, I had my daughters, but those people we saw getting loaded off the boat mattered, too. Might have families missing them. So. We contacted the police. And here we are.” He scrubs his hands wearily down his face.

“So, there’s been an increase in activity?” Tanger asks. “Or in the scale, or magnitude?”

“I mean, the mafia is the mafia,” Sergei answers. “Nothing about it is good. But there’s new leadership in the Bratva. These last few months have been...horrible. The Bratva has never been anything but cruel, but lately it’s turned unbelievably dangerous. Beatings, killings. The new leadership getting everyone in line. And now, trafficking women. Children. I—” Sergei breaks off, his breath ragged. Sid aches in sympathy.

“Thank you,” he tells Sergei. “For doing this.”

Serget looks at Evgeni for a brief moment, and shakes his head. “We deserve no thanks. This we do to atone for our sins.” Evgeni whines, as if in agreement.

“Okay,” Sid says. “Tell us what you can. Like I said, we’ll keep you safe. I swear it.” Sergei’s expression is bleak, and somehow, even shifted, Evgeni’s manages to be too. But they look at each other again, resigned, and then Sergei nods.

“Let’s do it,” he grits out.

 

***

 

The next few weeks alternate between controlled mayhem and mind-numbing boredom. There are contingency plans being made to get Sergei’s family out and to safety, and there’s a task force being put together to locate trafficking victims the Bratva’s already brought in, and another making plans to intercept the next shipment somehow. There are stakeouts, and surveillance, all conducted with the extreme care needed to keep their confidential informants safe. All of it is complicated by how low-level Sergei and Evgeni are. They give the police everything they know, but the information they have is often bare-bones and fragmented.

Meanwhile, the new Bratva leadership tightens its stranglehold. There are two new bodies in the morgue right now bearing Russian tattoos, one fished out of the Allegheny and one found dumped in an alley. Foot soldiers who didn’t toe the line, maybe, or higher-ups whose loyalty was in question. Each time Sid and Tanger meet with Sergei and Evgeni, the ‘wolves look more strained and sick around the eyes. Evgeni still has never shifted in front of them, and Sid can’t say he blames him.

“It won’t be long now, until they decide to test our loyalty,” Sergei says. “I don’t know what they’ll ask us to do, but I—” He can’t finish, and Evgeni leans against legs in solidarity, eyes anguished. Sid doesn’t know what to say. The police need the information flow badly, and he knows some would tell them to do what they have to in order to stay on the good side of the Bratva. But Sid can’t bring himself to ask that of them. They’re good people. He’s got a feeling of protective responsibility towards them.

Lives are at stake here, every way they turn.

 

***

 

The operation catches a bit of break, logistics-wise, when Ksenia gets word that her mother has fallen ill. It’s not serious, just a small surgery required, but it at least gives a fairly viable excuse for Sergei to send his his wife and daughters on a family visit to Armenia, where Ksenia was born. His own excuse for staying behind being, of course, his dedication to the Bratva and his (feigned) dislike for his mother in law. The Bratva is loathe to let possible leverage escape their grasp, but Sergei is a small fish and they let the matter go easily enough.

Sergei has a deep calm about him the next time the ‘wolves meet with Sid, this time in a Denny’s off the freeway.

“It doesn't matter what happens to me now,” he says. “Ksenia and I have said our goodbyes. I may not survive this, but it needs to be done.” Evgeni growls his assent from under the table, where he’s sprawled like the world’s most menacing service dog.

Sid crumples a packet of Sweet-n-Low between his fingers. “I meant it, when I promised I'd get the both of you through this.”

Sergei smiles sadly at him. “You're a good man. I know you will do your best. But you are only human, Sid.”

“I’m a police detective,” Sid says inanely, and Sergei smiles.

“True. And a magic user.” He looks at the rune Sid has drawn on the table with salt, one that will make people's eyes slide over them as if they aren't there.

“Speaking of,” Sid says, leaning awkwardly sideways in the booth to try and look Evgeni in the eyes. “Evgnei. Do my abilities...make you uncomfortable?” Evgeni just huffs, keeping his head resting on his big front paws.

Sergei sighs. “‘Wolves are not fond of magic, at least human magic. Too much history of it being used against us or to control us. But don't take Zhenya to heart. He's—he's not like me. He's got a good heart, but he's young. He has a temper he can't always keep in check. Don’t growl at me, Zhenya, you know you do. He's gotten himself in trouble before. And the Bratva is fond of using magic to punish troublemakers.”

Sid doesn't want to know what kind of horrors that might entail. “It's okay,” he says, still trying to scrunch and speak directly to Evgeni instead of over him. “You should do what feels comfortable for you. I was just afraid _I_ was making you uncomfortable, still.”

“I don’t think either of us is too comfortable without fangs,” Sergei says wryly.

Sid has to smile a little at that. “Just making sure there isn’t anything else I could do to set him at ease.”

“Believe me, Sid. Zhenya trusts you, as much as he trusts any non-were. Neither of us would still be talking to you or Kris if we didn't.”

“I'm glad,” Sid says, thinking of Sergei’s quiet determination and the righteous anger in Evgeni’s eyes. “I'm really glad.”

 

***

 

Sergei and Evgeni’s information trickles in, bit by tiny bit. Patrol routes. Shipment arrival dates. Pack gossip regarding the identities of powerful people with secret ties to the Bratva. A warehouse address here, a license plate number there.

There isn’t much that the police can do at the moment, without alerting the organization that they have CIs feeding them information. There are a few “routine” traffic stops carefully timed and planned that yield a few illegal firearms and minor arrests. But they aren’t any closer to finding out where the trafficked people have gone, or if there are more being brought in.

And then Evgeni misses a dead drop he was supposed to make. And then he misses another. Sid contacts Sergei and they meet under the overpass again. Sergei is pacing and miserable.

“Zhenya’s gone. I haven’t spoken to him for two days,” he says. “Fucking idiot, he probably went too far and pissed someone off.”

Sid knows by now that Evgeni’s like a little brother to Sergei and he can’t imagine how this must feel to him. Sergei keeps pacing.

“There isn’t anything your magic can do about _this_ , is there?” he asks, mouth twisted.

Sid shakes his head “Not long range like this. I wish there was. But we can look for him. I’ll—I’ll talk to my superiors. But—” He feels sick saying it. “They may decide we can’t risk a move, just for one person.”

Sergei swears violently in Russian, then slumps like the fight’s gone out of him. “I know, Sid. This isn’t your fault.”

Sid knows it isn’t but he feels responsible just the same. The department has been after him and Kris for more results, more information; and he can’t help but feel like maybe they’ve in turn asked too much of Evgeni and Sergei. He bids goodbye to Sergei, and heads back to the precinct.

 

***

 

He spends the entire rest of the day, and into the evening, hunched over his laptop and pacing in front of the boards they’ve set up with charts and maps and case info. He’s spent a great deal of time in frustrating meetings with both Sullivan and Mario, but it’s out of all of their hands. They can't jeopardize a sting like this because one solitary confidential informant isn’t checking in.

Cullen eventually stops by Sid’s desk on his own way out the door, back to his family.

“Sid,” he says, voice gentle. “You’re not gonna be anymore use tonight. Go home and get some sleep.” Sid rubs at his gritty eyes, and has to concede that Cully’s right. He usually is.

He turns his badge on its chain over in his hands a few times before he rises to go. He rubs his thumb over its raised crest, and feels like he’s failed.

 

***

 

When he leaves the precinct, it’s like the sky’s cracked open. It’s pouring, and there are periodic rolls of thunder in the distance. Sid’s magic usually likes weather like this, and he tilts his head back to let the rain course down his uncovered face and neck. But he’s too worried and strung tight for it to do any good.

It feels like ages before he makes it home, and his feet feel heavy as he locks his car. His mind’s still back at the precinct, but he comes back to himself with a sickening jolt when he sees there’s someone sitting at the top of the steps, right in front of the door to his apartment. They’re sitting down, but whoever it is, is big. Head resting on bony knees, skin, too much skin, pallid and dirty in the harsh glow of the light outside Sid’s door. Sid’s hand goes to his service weapon.

“Hello?” he calls out. That door’s warded to kingdom come, but that doesn’t do Sid any good when he’s _outside_ his damn apartment.

The person—man, Sid sees, unfolds himself and stands, groaning. He’s backlit and Sid can’t make out his face, but he’s huge. Sid’s hand tightens on his gun.

“Sidney?” the man says, and Sid can see he’s holding out his hands, open, to show he’s unarmed. Sid takes a few steps closer. The man moves back, and the light falls on him. He’s stark naked. There’s either dirt or blood or both streaked across his skin, and he’s shaking. “Sidney. Didn’t know where else to go.” His voice is deep and accented. _Russian_. Sid moves to the foot of the stairs.

Closer up, the man has strong features and dark, hooded eyes. He’s got long, lanky limbs just like—

“Evgeni?” Sid asks, not daring to hope. The man slumps back against Sid’s door.

“Your pronunciation worst,” he says, voice amused and exhausted both. “Call me Geno.”

 

***

 

Sid has a werewolf in his house. Specifically, Sid has a werewolf on his couch, wrapped in a duvet after taking a hot shower to sluice off the blood he’d been encrusted with. He’s got a butterfly bandage on the scalp wound that was responsible for most of the blood, and another couple holding together the worst of the fang slashes on his upper arm.

Sid brings him a mug of hot tea, and sits awkwardly in an armchair. Evgeni—Geno, sighs appreciatively into the tea and Sid gives him a moment before he begins asking the necessary questions.

“So. You’ve been missing. Sergei was worried.”

Geno stares into the tea as if it holds the answers to this entire mess. “They have me. For two days.” He takes a another sip of tea. Sid can see his hands shake. “I didn’t want to wait. Always thinking about what we see, where those people go. I ask some questions. Too many. Wrong person. They tell me if I get so nosy, loyalty ‘in question.’ They ask me ‘prove myself’.” He scowls darkly. “I’m not do.” He drinks from the tea again. “They not like.”

There’s a lot Geno’s not saying, and Sid doesn’t want to push, not right now. “You’ll come in and make a statement? Tomorrow?” Geno nods.

That brings Sid to his next question. “How the fuck did you find my apartment?”

Geno smirks a little. Sid’s fascinated by the expressiveness of his human face. “Tracked you, before rain start. Followed scent trail.” That’s...seriously impressive. Geno notices the look on Sid’s face and his smirk deepens. “I’m best,” he says, with a shrug of false modesty. Sid laughs, he can’t help it. Somehow, he hadn’t expected human Evgeni to be, well, kind of a cocky douche. Or certainly douche-adjacent.

Geno’s stomach audibly growls then, and Sid flushes. He’s being a shit host; his mother, and possibly Canada, would be disappointed in him.

“I was thinking of getting takeout?” he asks and Geno nods enthusiastically. They decide on Chinese. Geno teases him about the considerable stack of takeout menus he’s accumulated.

“And you? Do you even cook?” Sid retorts. Geno waves his hand dismissively. “I always feel kind of bad,” Sid continues, “calling out a delivery person in weather like this.” He looks up at Geno’s silence to see him looking back at Sid, with a expression that’s almost fond.

“Such nice person,” Geno grins, tongue between his teeth. “Also help little old ladies cross street, I’m think. Can’t be superhero, so become policeman.”

“Shut up,” Sid says, feeling his ears turn red, and places their order. He’ll just leave an extra big tip.

 

***

 

After they’ve put a considerable dent into a frankly ridiculous amount of Chinese food, Maisie finally decides to bestir herself and pad into the living room.

“ _Oh_ ,” Geno breathes, eyes shining and face gone soft. “Hello!”

Maisie eyes him assessingly. Sid had heard about how animals reacted to weres, and waits for her to hiss and run out of the room. Maisie does neither, however. In response to the fall of liquid Russian sweet-talk Geno coos at her, Maisie “mmrrrrrp”s and flops to the floor at Geno’s feet. Her paws knead the air and she goes cross-eyed with happiness as he scritches her ears with a gentleness that inexplicably makes Sid’s chest feel funny.

“It’s a really good thing that you’re doing,” Sid finds himself saying. “Risking your life to get us information.

Geno shrugs. “It’s right thing. Only thing.” He gaze is steady, and serious. And Sid has to add yet another facet to the picture he’s trying to make of Evgeni Malkin.

 

***

 

The apartment feels different with someone else in it, Sid thinks to himself. He’s always taken a funny sort of comfort from the sounds of life that filter in through the thinnish walls. The downstairs neighbor’s baby crying, the shower running in the apartment on the other side of his bedroom wall, even his upstairs neighbor’s yappy Bichon Frise.

This feeling of connection is even stronger knowing that Geno is asleep on his couch. His soft snoring should be annoying but Sid finds it strangely soothing.

 

***

 

Sid’s woken up by a massive crack of thunder. As he stares up at his ceiling, willing his heart rate to slow back down enough for sleep, he hears a terrible, drawn out sound from the living room. It’s half a howl, half a keening whine, and it sends Maisie rocketing under the bed with a hiss. Sid gets up and goes to see what’s wrong. When he flicks on the living room lights, he sees Geno isn’t in his human shape anymore. Sid has a massive Eurasian gray wolf on his couch now. He’s curled into the tightest, most miserable ball of canine Sid’s ever seen, and he’s still making that horrible noise. The rain sheeting against the windows is so loud Sid has to raise his voice.

“Geno?” Geno lifts his head, and his eyes are so bewildered and sad that Sid wants to do something dumb, like take Geno’s head in his hands and pet him like he’s a dog, or something. Sid reminds himself that he isn’t. He sits cautiously on the end of the couch furthest from Geno.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” he asks, realizing as he speaks that these are both stupid questions. Geno is clearly not okay and in this form he’s not about to tell Sid why. Geno whimpers in response and uncurls, surging mostly upright and turning towards Sid. He falls forward, head butting Sid in the chest and then just staying there, forehead pressing hard into Sid’s sternum. Sid can feel Geno’s entire body shaking with fine tremors. And Sid doesn’t know what on earth to do when a full grown werewolf tries to climb into your lap but he knows what feels right, anyway. He gives in to the impulse and buries his hands in the thick fur of Geno’s neck, rubbing up and down his sides.

“It’s okay,” he tries to soothe. “You’re gonna be okay.” He doesn’t mean to, but he feels his magic reach out, wanting to comfort, to calm. He tries to rein it in, but Geno whines and attempts to burrow further into Sid’s arms so he lets it flow, trailing soft, glowing streaks of gold from his hands. It shimmers in Geno’s fur for a moment before harmlessly winking out, and he gradually feels Geno’s body relax, loosening until he slumps wearily across Sid’s lap. It should feel weird, or awkward, but instead it just feels...right. Geno sighs, deep, like it’s coming from the pit of his soul. Sid smiles at the sound. The moment stretches, dream-like, and Sid isn’t sure how long they sit there, Sid stroking Geno’s soft ears and murmuring nonsense in low tones to him.

It’s Maisie who finally breaks the spell. She appears in the hallway leading to Sid’s bedroom, complaining about her nighttime source of warmth abandoning her. “Shit,” Sid says. “I’ve got be up early for work tomorrow.” He tenses as if to slide himself out from under Geno and get up, but Geno whines, and Sid’s heart twists. Wondering to himself if he’s gone crazy, he asks: “Want...to come in and sleep with us? Maisie and me?” Geno sits up, abruptly, eyes wide, and hauls himself off of Sid and trots to the hallway, looking back at Sid as if to say, “Well? Aren’t you coming?”

Sid tries not to think too hard about what he’s doing, and follows. In his room, Geno snuffles at Maisie’s fur for a moment, while she eyes him dubiously. She deems sleep more necessary than taking offense at intruding werewolves though, and takes up her usual spot in the bend of Sid’s body. The bed dips as Geno gets up on it, and he stretches himself along the foot. There’s a pause, and then he settles his head across Sid’s ankle. Sid smiles a little to himself, and slips into deep, easy sleep.

 

***

 

When Sid wakes up the next morning, there are several key differences between now and last night.

Last night he fell asleep with a shifted ‘wolf asleep at his feet.

This morning, there’s a naked man draped across his chest.

Geno has an arm wrapped around Sid’s torso and his face tucked into Sid’s neck. Sid goes very still. He’s not sure what’s off, until he realizes he’s waiting for his own freakout, and that it’s just...not coming. Instead, Geno’s loose-limbed weight is warm, and comfortable, and there’s an odd feeling of rightness. Like he felt last night, but stronger.

“What the hell,” Sid says aloud, and Geno groans a little, _nuzzling_ at Sid’s neck. “Geno,” Sid says. “Wake up.” He twitches his shoulder, in an effort to dislodge the werewolf who seems dangerously close to—and yep, there it is. Geno licks a long, wet stripe up Sid’s neck and Sid makes an undignified noise. Geno raises himself up on his arms, and blinks at Sid. His hair is sticking up in tufts, and Sid should be freaking out, not calmly thinking that Geno looks _cute_ half-asleep. Geno stares for a moment, before he wakes up a little more and realization dawns. His eyes widen, and he rears back, shocked.

Freed from Geno’s weighted blanket impression, Sid slides into a half upright position against his headboard. “Geno. This doesn’t feel weird, and it should. What’s going on?”

“Pack...bond,” Geno says, incredulous. And then just keeps staring. Sid scrubs his hands down his face.

“Okay, here’s the plan. I’m gonna go make some coffee, and you’re going to put on some pants. And then you’re going to explain what the hell you mean by that.” Geno nods, and his eyes follow Sid as he gets up and drags himself to the kitchen. He makes coffee, and calls Sullivan. He gives him a _highly_ edited version of the situation, and gets the okay to bring Geno down to the station later in the day. He takes two mugs of coffee back to the bedroom, stopping abruptly in the doorway.

“Are you _huffing_ my pillow?”

Geno looks up guiltily from where he’s had his face buried in Sid’s pillow. Sid sighs.

“Take this, and move over.” Geno takes the mug of coffee and scoots aside. When Sid’s situated, he gives Geno a level stare.

“Talk,” he says.

Geno fidgets with the edge of the duvet. “So. Werewolves have bond. Connected. Need pack to be close. If we alone for a long time...it’s bad. We get...like with stopping drugs?”

“Withdrawals?” Sid supplies.

Geno nods. “Bad. Worst. Last night, they do something. Break bond all at once, I think with magic. To punish. Felt like...hole.” He makes a tearing motion with both hands. “In my head.” Sid winces. “You feel nice. Safe. You make it feel better. And now I’m think, we make new pack bond last night.” Geno frowns. “Not supposed happen with humans.”

Sid rubs absently at the center of his own chest, as if he can feel an invisible tether stretching from it to Geno’s. “What happens to ‘wolves without a bond to anyone?”

Geno’s shudder speaks volumes. “Go little bit crazy. Too lonely. Die, maybe.”

Sid takes that in, and weighs his options. There’s only one that makes sense, though. He takes a deep breath, and slowly exhales.

“Okay. Then we keep it. I told you and Sergei I’d do everything in my power to keep you guys safe.”

Geno looks stricken. “Sorry, Sid.” Sid shakes his head.

“It’s not like you meant to do this. And you shouldn’t go through what you went through last night again. So. What do you need? What happens now?”

Geno looks like he wants to argue with Sid for a minute, but then his shoulders sag. “Need to stay close when bond is new. Touch important for pack. Uh, good if you smell like me. Like mine.”

The phrasing makes Sid’s face heat a little But he soldiers on. “Okay. What else?”

“Pack take care of each other.”

Sid considers Geno. He’s not looking at Sid, and he’s hunched in on himself like he’s trying to make himself smaller. Sid doesn’t like to see it. He decides to start in on this pack support thing, and reaches out to...he’s not sure what. He ends up awkwardly patting at Geno’s bed head, and Geno looks at him a little incredulously.

“Am not dog, Sid.”

Sid snatches his hand away like he’s been burned. “I know you aren’t—sorry.”

Geno sighs loudly and crowds up against Sid, his body heavy and warm. He tucks his face into Sid’s neck again, like he had been doing when they first woke up.

“Like this, Sid,” he rumbles, and Sid can’t suppress a shiver. This is going to take some getting used to.

A thought strikes him. “Geno? How does the bond make you feel? Does it, _make_ you feel things?”

Geno hums, shifting until he’s slotted one of his skinny calves between Sid’s. “Like, give you feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t give you. Just, feel nice to be close. Safe. Different for different ‘wolves, little bit. I think maybe my parents can hear thoughts.” He sounds so exasperated that Sid laughs a little. He feels Geno smile against his skin. “Also, bond feels good when everybody happy. Don’t _make_ happy, but feel good when you are.”

This raises more questions for Sid. “Okay, so, with the Bratva then…”

Geno stiffens, and a shudder runs through him. “Bond can also feel bad, if person is bad. Rotten. Or if everyone is not happy, always. But still need. Breaking it feel too bad.” He lifts his head to look at Sid then, and his eyes are soft and relieved looking. “Bond with you feel good, Sid. Best I’m feel for long, long time. I’m sorry for happen but…”

Sid shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I like you, I _guess_. If I had to get pack-bonded to anyone, I’m glad it was you.” He smiles at Geno to let him know he’s teasing. Geno rolls his eyes and buries his face in Sid’s hair, exhaling mightily.

“Of course, I’m best.” And Sid has to smile at that too.

 

***

 

Taking Geno to the precinct is…an experience. Heads go up all over the bullpen when Sid walks in with a six-foot-four Russian werewolf trailing him. They stop at Sid’s desk, and while Sid hunts around for some papers he needs, Geno sprawls himself in Sid’s desk chair and pokes around, touching everything. Opposite him, Flower is staring. Geno picks up Sid’s framed photo of himself and Taylor.

“Pretty,” Geno says, and Sid pauses to glare at him.

“That’s my sister.”

Geno looks pleased about something, who knows what. “Is why pretty, then.” What is he even talking about. Flower makes a choking noise.

“Sid, please. Introduce me?” Sid looks up, suspicious at the glee in Flower’s voice. Nothing good happens when he sounds like that.

“This is Evgeni Malkin, my CI.”

“Also, packmates now,” Geno supplies helpfully. Flower looks like he’s going to explode.

“I’m Marc-Andre, please call me Flower, and tell me everything about this.”

Sid can feel the beginnings of a headache blooming behind his eyes. It’s going to be a long day.

 

***

 

The first day bringing Geno into the precinct sets the tone for Sid’s new “normal.” Geno can’t go back to the tiny shithole apartment he lived in before, so he pretty much moves in with Sid. The higher-ups are a little stymied as to whether or not Sid needs to be taken off of the case. If werewolf pack bonds count as family ties, it would be a conflict of interest.

Sid decides he’ll let them hash it out, and in the meantime he tries to move forward with his life. But things are decidedly different.

He’s got this pull in the center of his chest now. He’s not sure, but he thinks he knows when Geno’s happy, or upset, or stressed. He can tell when they get closer together or farther apart. And the bond feels so good when they’re close. Some of that has to be Geno’s relief at being freed from the toxicity of his previous pack ties. But some, Sid must admit, has to be his own pitiful happiness at not being _alone_ anymore. You don’t realize how lonely you were, he thinks, until you aren’t.

Being lonely with Geno around would be impossible. The man takes up a fucking lot of space, for one. And he wasn’t kidding about the ‘wolf need for closeness and touch. Which presents another pile of issues.

Geno touches Sid, _all the time_ . When they watch tv in the evening he leans into Sid’s side, or lays his head in Sid’s lap. When Sid brings work home and spends too long grimacing over case files Geno will _tsk_ at him and tug him into Geno’s side and stroke his hair, or poke him until he’s wheezing with laughter. Geno stands close to him in the kitchen when they cook. He loops his arms around Sid’s waist, he ruffles Sid’s hair, he nuzzles at Sid’s neck in the name of “scent-marking.” With anyone else it might come off as almost romantic, but Sid feels lost at sea. He has no clear idea of what means what with Geno. This just seems to be how ‘wolves are.

He doesn’t realize just how far it's gotten until he needs to take Geno to the precinct to look at some mugshots a few weeks after the night they bonded. Geno hooks his chin over Sid’s shoulder as Sid pages through the binder of photos, hands clasped in front of Sid’s waist. Flower and Tanger are looking at them like their hair’s on fire, or something.

“Too many!” Geno complains. “All start look same.” He presses his face into the side of Sid’s neck.

“Take a break,” Sid advices. “There’s a vending machine out in the hall.” He can feel Geno’s growing irritation through the bond. He always gets like this when he’s hungry.

“Best,” Geno says, and trots off in search of unhealthy snack options. Sid eyes Flower and Tanger’s twin owl impressions.

“Okay, what?”

“You do realize how weird this is, Sid?” Tanger says. “You aren’t touchy. With anyone. Is it the bond thing? Are you okay with this?”

Sid frowns. “The bond doesn’t make me let Geno touch me. I told him it was okay. ‘Wolves need touch.”

Flower’s frowning. “You didn’t quite answer the question, Sid.”

Sid sighs, and he can feel his ears turn red. “I...don’t…. _not_ like it. I mean, it’s not like he feels like I—it’s just the way ‘wolves are.”

Flower doesn’t look any happier. “Oh, Sid.”

Geno returns then, thankfully cutting off that conversation. He tosses a package of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups at Sid, then sits in Sid’s chair and puts his feet up on the desk.

“I shouldn’t eat these,” Sid protests.

“Sh. You love,” Geno retorts, reaching over to pat Sid’s thigh

Flower and Tanger just give Sid another significant look.

 

***

 

And that’s the crux of the problem, isn’t it? Sid hadn’t been aware he was crushing hard on Geno until he was already in deep. When he thinks about it, he realizes it started the first time he met him in his human shape. Geno’s tall, and good-looking, with his deep brown eyes and a generous mouth. His hands make Sid weak in the knees, and Sid loves the long, almost graceful stretch of his legs. It’s his voice too, the deep rumble of it, the accent Sid desperately tries not to find impossibly hot.

Sid can only hope and pray that none of this is leaking through the bond. He doesn’t want to freak Geno out, or worse, face his kind rejection. Because he would be kind about it, Sid thinks.

But oh, he loves coming home to another person. He loves it when Geno gently bounces  Maisie in his arms like a baby while crooning ridiculous Russian songs to her. He loves it when Geno teases him. He loves having someone to talk to about work, which he needs desperately since the stress is ramping up.

Sergei was overjoyed to find out Geno is okay, but he warns that punishments and suspicion are rampant within the Bratva ranks. Luckily, when Geno didn't show up crushed and begging to be let back into the pack, weeks ago, they've moved on to assuming he's dead. It takes some of the pressure off, but they still have to be careful. It isn’t safe for Geno to venture far, and he either stays at home, or he comes along with Sid to work. A were and a magic user together are a formidable target.

Geno’s restless though, and Sid knows that the people he saw being trafficked are never far from his mind.

 

***

 

They have a routine for Saturday nights now. Sid hooks his laptop to the tv so he can bring up Hockey Night In Canada. He could, of course, just watch NBC, but the Canadian broadcast is way better and helps when he’s missing Nova Scotia a little.

Then, they watch whatever hockey game is playing and inhale a massive amount of Chinese takeout. Or rather, bicker about the hockey game and their respective food choices both.

“I’ll never understand why you do this,” Sid says. “One of the key components of broccoli beef...is. The. Broccoli. Why do you order it and then pick it out?”

Geno is unperturbed. “I’m like. And you eat all broccoli. Is okay, I eat all peppers and pineapple for you from sweet-and-sour.” Sid knows he’s a lost cause, because he gets warm and fuzzy about the way they spilt their damn takeout order, for fuck’s sake.

It reminds him of the night Geno first arrived on his doorstep, he thinks, meditatively demolishing a potsticker. Dark winter night, takeout. It’s snowing tonight, a gentle whisper against the windows that has his magic unfurling contentedly inside him. They’re sitting on the floor with their backs against the couch, which means Maisie sits behind them to sniff at their hair and knead her claws happily into their shoulders. Geno shouts triumphantly when, on the TV, Ovechkin buries a shot topshelf.

I’m in love with him, Sid thinks. It’s been, what? Two months? And I’m in love. What kind of idiot…

Geno turns to grin at him. “Sid, did you see! Beauty!” He’s been picking up some of Sid’s North American hockey slang.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sid hears himself say, because, as has been established, he’s an idiot. “This is—good. I hope you think so, too?”

Geno’s looking at him with a strange expression, almost like relief. “Glad you like, Sid. Sometimes I’m think about bond, hope you not hate. Or, wrong word. Regret.”

“I don’t,” Sid says, feeling a hopeful sort of happiness surge along the bond. He’s staring at Geno, he thinks, but he can’t seem to make himself stop.

Just then, his cell rings, the blare of it shattering the moment. He swears as he fumbles around the couch cushions for it. The ID tells him it’s Sullivan, and his heartbeat spikes.

“Sid?” Sullivan’s voice is brisk, and curt. “Letang just got word from Sergei. There’s a whole group of trafficking victims being brought through. They’re being held in a warehouse for a little while, and Sergei knows the address, but by Monday or Tuesday they’ll be moved to god knows where. We need to get things going tonight. Get down here.”

“Yes sir,” Sid answers, and hangs up. Geno’s looking at him intensely and Sid knows his hearing is so good he’s caught everything. “Here we go,” he tells Geno, and Geno growls, human form notwithstanding.

 

***

 

The next twenty-four hours are a blur. The precinct is a hive of activity, planning and preparation going on everywhere. Sid has his own routines before events like this, some of it requested by the department and some that just make him feel better. He goes to where the gear is kept and carefully goes over his spellwork. The runes he’s etched into riot shields for the officers: clear-headedness, peace, protection. The strengthening wards he’s cast over each one of the departments’ kevlar vests. The salt he sprinkles into gear bags and helmets and uniform pockets. He goes to the garage and lays a palm on the hood of each vehicle he knows is going to be used. Frost spirals and blooms under his hands, and the words he whispers into the air are the same as they always are.

“Let us protect the innocent and champion the vulnerable. Let us serve this city with honor. Let us return home safely to the people we love.” He’d mostly always thought about his colleagues with families and children, but now, he also thinks of Geno waiting for him at home, and he whispers even more fervently into the cooling air.

When he’s done, it’s well into Sunday afternoon, and he’s so exhausted he’s about to fall over. Sullivan sends him home for a few hours, to try and sleep a bit before the raid goes down Sunday night.

 

***

 

Sid can’t sleep when he gets home, though. He sets his phone alarm for 11 pm and draws his blackout curtains, but it’s no good. He tosses and turns so much Maisie pins back her ears at him and goes to sleep in the laundry basket.

Eventually, there a knock on the door. Sid sighs. “Come in, G.” Geno opens the door, the hallway light silhouetting his broad shoulders.

“Need to sleep, so you stay safe tonight,” he says, sounding disapproving.

“I’m trying,” Sid grits out.

“I should be there,” Geno says, sounding likes he’s frowning.

“We’ve been over this,” Sid says, and it’s true. Geno can’t go, werewolf or no. He’s a civilian.

Geno looks at him for a long moment, expression shadowed and inscrutable. Then he starts yanking his clothes off. A pained grunt, and Sid sees his shape melt into something else. Geno-the-wolf jumps onto the bed, draping himself over Sid and sighing demonstratively.

“Get, off, fucker,” Sid says, but it’s just for show. Geno’s weight feels like an anchor, and the pack bond feels like it's vibrating with protectiveness and warmth. He tightens his hold on Geno’s ruff, and hopes tonight will bring success.

 

***

 

The address Sergei was able to give them is a derelict looking riverfront warehouse. Sergei told them that it’s warded, but that he has been assigned to guard it tonight and will try to find them a weak spot.

There’s gravel digging into Sid’s knees as he hunches behind a stack of wooden pallets. He can feel the wards set up around the warehouse, buzzing and malevolent. Sullivan asked him to do what he could, but there’s not much he can do to them, besides prod and probe a little to look for mistakes, or thin spots.

Infrared tells them there are at least thirty people inside, mostly huddled together in the center of the biggest open space. Sid’s seen the screen: some of the shapes are so small that he feels bile and rage rise in his throat, and his magic crackles between his fingers.

There are a few people and shifted ‘wolves pacing around different parts of the building. There are at least seven to ten Bratva members, one of whom is Sergei, Sid thinks uneasily.

The wards ripple, and a shadow detaches itself from the squatting bulk of the building and heads toward the other side of the street. Sergei. Sid can see him get stopped by Cullen and Kessel, and then Sullivan's in Sid’s earpiece.

“Sergei says he’s managed to partially lift the wards on the southwest corner of the building. Sid, can you do anything with that?”

“I’ll try,” Sid responds, and creeps closer, crossing the street and reaching out to see what Sergei’s managed. He can sense where Sergei’s weakened them, probably by scratching over a rune or a sigil. It’s not much, but it might be enough. Sid carefully trickles salt in the pattern he wants, and then checks back in on his earpiece.

“I’m going to try a rune that should tear into the wards at this corner, but it’s going to be pretty damn obvious to anyone who’s magic sensitive in there. Which is going to include all of the ‘wolves.”

Sullivan tells him to hold off a moment, and that they’re doing to try and wait until as many Bratva members are out of the main room as possible.

“Fuck, shit!” Flower curses from where he’s monitoring surveillance. “Sid, there’s three shifted ‘wolves at least headed your way. They probably scented you.”

“Go!” Sullivan shouts, “Do it now, Sid!”

Sid slams his hand down into the middle of the salt pattern he made, and wills it to flare up with power. He feels his own magic slam into the warehouse wards, and for a moment, they hold steady. But he keeps pouring himself into the attack, and finally, he feels them buckle, and the wards over the entire half of the building closest to him wink out.

After that, everything is chaos. Officers pour in through the opened wards, and he knows there are specific groups of them assigned to take care of specific tasks, from clearing the main room of Bratva to getting the trafficking victims, now hostages, to safety. Technically, Sid is supposed to hang back and wait for a situation where his magic is needed, but he has a feeling that's not going to be an option. He can hear snarls and shouting from inside as the Bratva realize what’s happening and respond. A shot rings out, than another, and the first thing Sid sees when he dives into the building in response, weapon raised, is a ‘wolf going after Sheary’s throat. He aims, and fires, and it falls off of the rookie with a pained yelp and a thud.

Further in, it’s even more chaotic, and the air rings with terrified screams. The shouting over the radio tells him the main room is cleared, and the guards have fled through a side door. Sid doesn’t hesitate. This needs to stop. He made a promise to Geno and Sergei. This organization needs to be brought down. And for that, they need members to question. He sprints down a hallway to a set of doors he knows from the briefing lead to a loading dock. He can hear shouts and panicked-sounding Russian.

When he pushes the doors cautiously open to peer around the loading dock, however, he doesn’t see or hear anything. He edges out carefully, keeping to the deepest areas of shadow, straining his eyes and ears. His blood runs cold when he hears a low growl and a deep inhalation from atop a pile of rusted equipment to his left, as the were he’d missed crouching there takes in his scent.

“Good god,” the ‘wolf, who must be in human form, sneers. “Now we know where Malkin’s gone. Shacked himself up with a whore, it seems.” Sid brings his weapon up to bear in the direction of the sound, but his night vision is no match for a ‘wolf’s.

There a sharp crack, and suddenly everything’s wet, searing heat, and then—

 

Then there’s nothing at all.

 

 

***

 

Sid’s floating. Not in a peaceful way. He’s adrift on a sea that heaves and spins. Muffled voices and sounds clatter against his consciousness, but he can’t seem to make himself answer them. He knows what he wants more than anything, though.

“Geno?” he tries to say, unable to focus the blurred shapes around him into anything resembling reality. “Geno? It hurts.”

Dimly, he can sense the pack bond flare, and the relief he feels is fathomless. He’s not alone. Geno’s out there, somewhere. He’s not alone.

 

***

 

The next time Sid is aware of anything at all, he wakes up to throbbing pain beating behind his forehead, and an echoing pain in his shoulder. He opens his eyes, and he’s lying in a dim hospital room. He takes in the faint light streaming in through a gap in the curtains and wonders what time it is. As he blinks further awake, he discovers the line of heat along the side of his body is Geno. He’s asleep, crammed in next to Sid in the bed, curled protectively around him. He’s wearing scrubs and he’s got a hand fisted in the front of Sid’s hospital gown, like he’s afraid to let go, even in sleep. There’s something dark crusted under his nails, and further smudges up his arms. It reminds Sid of the first time he met Geno, and that’s when he sees that it’s dried blood.

“Geno?” he says, his voice coming out raspy and weak. Geno rears upright, his jostling sending a fresh wave of pain coursing through Sid’s head. He moans a little at it, and Geno looks frantic.

“Sorry, sorry Sid. Oh, Sidnyusha…” he’s holding Sid’s face in both of his hands, and then—

Then Geno is crying.

“Shh,” Sid tries to say, and he tries to wipe at the tears streaking Geno’s cheeks. There’s a lot of tubes everywhere though, and his shoulder feels like it’s on fire, so it’s difficult. Geno takes his hand and presses a fervent kiss to his palm.

“Thought I lose you, Sid.”

Sid can’t find any words, so he just tells Geno “shh, shh,” and tries to stroke his hair when he buries his face in Sid’s chest.

 

***

 

Sid finds out from a doctor that he sustained a bad bullet graze to the skull, and a concussion from hitting his head as he went down. The pain in his shoulder is a gunshot wound as well. He’s relieved to hear he’s the only officer who got seriously hurt. There were some fang slashes and one or two other bullet grazes, but no one got injured as badly as Sid. Sullivan is going to kill him.

 He finds out from Flower when he visits that when they got to him, somehow, Geno had been standing over him in wolf form, covered in blood. Most of it, but not all, was Sid’s. The rest was from Geno tearing apart a couple of Bratva members who tried to get close. Obviously, Geno had decided staying safe at home, like he was _supposed_ to, wasn’t an option. Sid’s going to have words for him later.

The other officers had barely been able to get him to allow the EMTs near Sid. Only when they brought Sergei over to talk Geno down could they stabilize Sid and take him to an ambulance. And then Geno had still refused to leave him.

“Still think he doesn’t feel the same way about you as you do about him?” Flower says. Sid thinks of the kiss Geno pressed to his palm and keeps his thoughts to himself.

 

***

 

They don’t talk about the kiss the entire time Sid spends in the hospital. He’s there nearly twelve days. His room accumulates an embarrassing amount of flower arrangements, and he has a steady stream of visitors. Even Sergei manages to visit, protective custody notwithstanding, to cluck his tongue and shake his head at Geno’s almost ludicrously possessive vigil.

When he finally gets the okay to go home he feels like he could just about kiss the living room carpet. He’s still on some nasty painkillers, but if he’s got to be drugged up and feeling gross at least he can be at home, with Maisie refusing to leave her spot at his side and Geno pretty much doting on him.

It’s….a little nice. The doting, that is. Sid’s fellow officers and their wives are pretty much keeping the fridge and freezer stuffed to bursting, so Geno (thankfully, he’s terrible) doesn’t need to cook. But he fusses over what food to give Sid, and whether Sid wants more water, or pillows, or pills, or maybe just Geno curled up beside him in wolf form. Sid offers some token protests, but Geno shuts him down with the “pack provide for each other” argument.

It’s a while before memories of what happened right before he got shot filter back to Sid. And when they do, he can’t help but wonder about what the Bratva werewolf had said to him. He’d known Sid was in contact with Geno, and he’d called him...a whore?

Sid chooses a quiet evening to ask. Geno had read aloud to Sid for a while, but it had devolved into Geno resting his head in Sid’s lap while Sid carded the fingers of his good hand through Geno’s hair.

“The guy who shot me could tell I knew you. Said something about you ‘shacking up with a whore.’ What was he talking about?” Under Sid’s hand, Geno goes very, very still. “And, in the hospital, when I first woke up, you kissed me. I mean, just my hand, but. Was it just ‘wolf stuff, again?”

“He say because, ah, you smell like me. Probably a lot. What you mean, ‘wolf stuff?”

“You know, ‘wolf stuff. Like the neck nuzzling, or the way you need to make all my stuff smell like you, and why you steal my workout shirts from the laundry and sleep with them.”

Geno continues to lie very, very still, and says nothing for a long moment. Sid waits. What he can see of Geno’s neck and ears has gone flaming red.

“Is...not just ‘wolf stuff.” He coughs, nervously, and then falls silent again. Sid can feel nerves radiating off of him through the bond.

“Come on, G,” Sid says softly. “Just tell me.”

Geno sits up, and fidgets with the corner of the duvet. “Courting.”

“What.”

Geno raises beseeching eyes to Sid’s. “Courting things. Not things all ‘wolves do.”

Sid feels like his entire world has just tilted severely on its axis. “But—”

“Will stop, if you want,” Geno says quickly. “I’m not want you feel weird, or—”

“Shut up,” Sid says, and wills the bond to telegraph the joy welling up inside of him to Geno. He reaches out and tugs him closer, and finally reciprocates what Geno’s done to him so often. He nuzzles into Geno’s neck, breathing in the the soap-clean smell of his skin. He turns it into gentle, sucking kisses under Geno’s jaw, and down to his collar bones. He feels Geno shudder when he, on impulse, sets his teeth along the join of Geno’s neck and shoulder.

Geno groans. “Don’t, Sid, worst. Can’t do anything when you hurt like this. “

“You could definitely kiss me,” Sid retorts.

Geno gives him an incendiary look, but his kiss is soft, and gentle. There’s time, Sid thinks, suddenly giddy, for more than this in the future. When he’s healed. Time for everything: getting the rest of the Bratva out of this city, informing his mother (and worse, Taylor) that he just might be romantically pack-bonded to a werewolf, breaking the news to Flower that he was right, damn it.

For now though, he lies back down among his pillows, and pulls Geno down with him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Excessive and gratuitous liberties taken with actual police work, which I know nothing about.
> 
> Beta'd, as ever, by the wonderful and amazing rhien/werebear
> 
> Title is from "Lights Down Low" by MAX
> 
> [Maisie the cat exists](https://knifeshoeoreofight.tumblr.com/post/162660663684/i-based-the-cat-in-my-fic-off-of-a-cat-up-for)
> 
> I made and then listened to three playlists incessantly while writing:  
> [WerewolfAM](https://open.spotify.com/user/ber88nice/playlist/73Xdt0hhqcQ4uOWaVY5HOb), for the snuggly bits  
> [Solving All the Crimes](https://open.spotify.com/user/ber88nice/playlist/4xtkIUfkyUxY82HaAXB67v), for the....crime solving  
> [Non-Lethally Bleeding In Your Lover's Arms](https://open.spotify.com/user/ber88nice/playlist/1ke3KMSZZcv2ujm80xbis0), for the bit at the end, there
> 
> Note: 88 in Spotify username is my birth year, NOT an unfortunate jersey number


End file.
